Due Precautions
by journalxxx
Summary: Some preparations are in order before sailing off.


Stan gasped, arms burning, knees hurting and back hunching as he rested his palms on his thighs to catch his breath. He could swear he was almost ready to lie on the floor and take the dummy's place.

" 'I spent thirty years trying to revive that hunk of junk in the basement' " Ford commented, right on point, with an annoyingly precise imitation of Stan's gruff and assured tone, " 'and you think I can't handle ten minutes-' "

"Oh, fuck off" Stan weakly shot back, wiping his brow.

Ford glanced up from his journal and checked his watch with an expression of benevolent indulgence that ticked Stan's nerves even more. "Well, that wasn't half bad for a first try. Even for well-trained personnel, it takes considerable effort to-"

"Can it. I said I can keep it up longer." The fourteen-year-old part of Stan's brain immediately smacked itself for the far too obvious that's-what-he-said joke he had just exposed himself to, but luckily it went straight over his brother's head. Nerd.

"It isn't a marathon, Stanley. While endurance is certainly important, using the proper technique should be your priority. For example, your rhythm was slightly too slow from the start, and fatigue didn't exactly improve it."

Stan sighed, flopping back on his ass to sit on the floor. The homemade resuscitation manikin stared at him from below, its white plastic face conveying all the silent disappointment of too many partners let down by both his technique and endurance.

"Why the hell didn't you stop me immediately if it wasn't right?"

"Well, you seemed so eager to put your skill to the test..."

Stan rubbed his hands on his face, begging all the Gods he didn't believe in to lend him the strength not to murder his brother and his infuriating smirk on the spot to practice CPR directly on his lifeless body.

"...Right. What's the right rhythm then?"

Stan got back on his knees and made another attempt following Ford's indications, but, no later than the tenth push, another sharp snap came from the innocent victim's chest. Ford grimaced.

"There goes the third rib."

"Shit." Stan sat back again in surrender. "You made this thing too flimsy."

"I made it realistic, I used biometric data from my own ribcage. In theory I would encourage you to continue, but honestly I wouldn't hold it against you if at this point you decided to let nature run its course. Drowning is a merciful enough death without the multiple fractures."

"Aren't you just in a lovely mood today?" Stan dusted off his hands as he stood up, declaring his job concluded and sparing a sympathetic thought for generous sacrifice of the manikin. "Anyway, this doll is ugly. It's literally just a block of plastic and a tube with a mask taped on it. I'm gonna have nightmares about it crawling in my bed and choking me in my sleep."

Ford rolled his eyes. "It has all the necessary anatomical structures, and very carefully rendered, if I say so myself. But I'll admit that I didn't pay particular attention to the cosmetic finishes. Feel free to improve it if you think it'll help you focus."

Stan hummed, wishing more than ever that Mabel hadn't left yet. With her help, it'd definitely turn into the best attraction of the Shack, and the bane of Ford's existence.

"Ah, I almost forgot," his brother continued as he rummaged into a drawer, pulled out a file of documents and handed it to Stan, "here's a summary of everything you should know by the time we set sail. Read it carefully, there's a rundown of the basic controls of the boat and all the equipment we're carrying, as well as a list of all the medicines we'll have on board and when and how to use them-"

"You're kidding me, right?" Stan flipped through at least 40 pages of instructions in disbelief, trying to fight off the unpleasant deja-vus that Ford's neat pictures and cramped notes about notions way beyond his understanding still gave him. "You said everything on the boat would be automatic."

"Indeed, the boat practically drives itself. Our wristwatches work as remote controls for the boat and communication devices, they analyze a variety of biological data on the wearer and they even provide basic treatment options and explanations. The defibrillator could basically guide a six-year-old through its use-"

"Then why do I have to study all this stuff?"

Ford frowned, joining the tips of his fingers and giving him his most serious don't-be-unreasonable-Stanley glance. "Because machines break, and you may find yourself in a situation when you don't want to waste time trying to decipher a crumpled piece of paper. We aren't leaving before we're both ready to deal with all the foreseeable accidents, so you'd better get going on it."

In all honesty that sounded fair, and Stan acknowledged it with a stiff military salute which earned him a scoff. Another thought struck him though, and his expression grew more sheepish. He fished his flashlight out of his pocket and walked up to Stan.

"Speaking of uh... accidents, how are your teeth?"

Stan grimaced, raising his hands to stop him. "You stay the fuck away from my mouth, or I swear to God-"

"I'm just checking! Besides, it wasn't my fault you didn't tell me about that unerupted tooth-"

"I forgot about it! I forget where I put my slippers every morning these days, and you expect me to remember that fifty years ago I chickened out of a dentist's appointment-"

"That's why I asked you if you were sure about it, and you said you were!"

"I _thought_ I-"

Ford interrupted the escalating pointlessness of the conversation by tapping the flashlight on Stan's lips. Stan glared at him, then resignedly opened his mouth and let his brother survey the damage. A few days earlier, Ford had declared that Stan needed to be in peak condition for the trip, and had coaxed him into taking a few magic sci-fi drops of his for his cataracts and hard hearing. Somehow he had also convinced Stan to let him stick a syringe full of suspicious fluid in his gums - something about how having a set of natural teeth was more practical and safe than relying on dentures - with the purpose of replicating his dentition. All of it, that is. Which had quickly become an issue when the rapidly growing new teeth had dislodged a forgotten wisdom tooth deeply embedded in Stan's gums and... Well, there had been some blood involved, and an ungodly amount of pain, solved only when Ford had taken advantage of Stan's shock to jam a second dubious syringe in his mouth. Stan had then heartily thanked Ford for his troubles with a right hook on the chin that almost made all the pain worth it.

"It looks completely healed. Maybe a bit too red. Does it still hurt?"

Stan grunted negatively. "Sho, ih tha hy y-"

"I can't understand anything and you're drooling all over the penlight, one moment."

With enourmous effort, Stan managed to summon the patience to let Ford finish his dental examination without headbutting him. Then Ford wiped the torch on a hopefully clean handkerchief and proceeded to shine it in his brother's eyes.

"I was saying, is that why you can vault over desks and chase monster and benchpress kids like you're twenty years younger? You cheat with space drugs?"

"I've never benchpressed anyone. And you're making it sounds like taking good care of your health is somehow reproachable. Have you noticed any improvements with your sight?"

"Yeah. But I still need glasses. How come you think dentures are impractical but you never bothered to get rid of your glasses? Or get a new pair, at least."

Ford paused, considering Stan's point for a moment before moving to his ears. "Hm, to be honest I've never looked into that. Habit got the better of me, I suppose. And all the medicines I currently have merely fix acquired damage or improve natural physiological functions, they can't change genetic imperfections like our astigmatism. Same goes with your hearing: I can rid you of your hearing aid, but I can't make you any better at _listening_."

"Oh, ouch. Some disaster of a brother you have. Bad teeth, bad eyes, bad ears, bad brain. Just chop my head off and make me a new one, will you?"

"Oh, hush." Ford deflected the comment with a small smile and a pat on his brother's back. Apparently satisfied with his examination, he put the ligth back and fetched the manikin from the ground. "I'll leave this in the storage room. Remember to train with it some more during the next weeks."

Stan nodded, watching Ford cover the eerie puppet with some protective wrap. His glance fell again on the carefully bound file. "...Looks like you're expecting this to go south pretty quickly, uh?"

"Not really. I simply don't know what we might find. And after travelling for thirty years with only few expanded quantum pockets' worth of equipment, I'd like to have the luxury of over-preparing."

Stan didn't reply. There would come a day when he would feel at ease enough to ask Ford for clarifications about his travels without fearing the somber atmosphere that came with the topic, but, he supposed, it didn't have to be today.

"How was that rhythm again?"

Wordlessly, Ford started tapping one knuckle on the table. The sharp knocks echoed slightly in the empty basement, their cadence as precise as a metronome's. Stan listened to it for a minute, trying to commit it to memory.

"Sounds easy enough now, but in a hurry..."

"Well, I heard there's an easy way to remember it."

"Yeah?"

Still knocking regularly on the table, Ford didn't reply, instead he seemed to focus on something remote on his mind. Stan waited, genuinely curious despite himself, expecting a revelation nothing short of sensational from whatever deep lucubration his brother's brain was weaving... and then Ford started to hum fucking _Queen_.

"What?" Stan snorted. The tune matched perfectly with the knocking, while the singing didn't match at all with his brother's usual stoic composure, making the scene somewhat surreal. Ford smiled and kept going with more gusto.

"Okay, but only you could sing _Another One Bites The Dust_ in your head while trying to save a guy's life." Stan chuckled, then laughed heartily. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What? Do you have a better suggestion?"

"You bet I do." He waited a few more knocks to synch it properly with the song in his head, then he struck up _Stayin' Alive_ with an unapologetically disastrous pretense of falsetto. Ford burst out laughing, more uncontrollably and almost hysterically as Stan's singing got progressively louder and more gravelly, and by the time he attempted a couple of dance moves, the knocking had stopped and his brother had collapsed on the chair, holding his stomach and giggling restlessly.

"You're deranged."

"Me?" Stan cackled, almost high after that bout of shared idiocy. "You're telling me that during an emergency I won't have time to read a piece of paper, but I should find- a fucking radio," Ford snorted again, burying his face in his hand, his shoulders shaking slightly with more giggles, "look for a specific song from one of the many radio stations you can catch in the Arctic, and then dance to it on-"

"Alright _fine_ , it may not be the most practical method. Do whatever you want." Ford finally cut him off, wiping a tear from his eye as he stood up and headed to the elevator somewhat unsteadily. "God, I need fresh air."

"Yeah, lots of it. Dork." Stan shoved him towards the elevator as he joined him. They exchanged genuine grins and for a moment, as they moved out of the basement still flushed and childishly giddy, he felt younger and lighter than he had in decades.

Boy, did he look forward to this trip.


End file.
